


Number One Fan

by whateverrrrwhatever



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Camboy Stiles Stilinski, College Student Stiles Stilinski, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hale-McCall Pack, Light Pining, M/M, Masturbation, Mostly porn, Porn Star Stiles Stilinski, Porn Watching, a little plot, drunk decisions, pov switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 04:34:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22490125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whateverrrrwhatever/pseuds/whateverrrrwhatever
Summary: After he goes away to college, Stiles stumbles into an amateur porn career. Derek is unable to be cool about it.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 30
Kudos: 686





	Number One Fan

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [dottie_wan_kenobi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dottie_wan_kenobi) and [ze_chocobo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beloved_Lie/pseuds/Beloved_Lie) for egging me on and helping me figure out how to make this good.
> 
> This is pretty much a bunch of porn barely stitched together by something that vaguely resembles plot. 
> 
> A slight warning: Stiles makes stupid decisions while drunk, and there is a lot of drinking in this. There are no consent issues between him and Derek because of it. However if the idea bothers you, you might want to steer clear.
> 
> Another slight warning, because everyone deserves to read the porn they expect: Derek calls Stiles "baby" once during sex - not in an ageplay way, just in a getting carried away with terms of endearment while boning kind of way. So you can nope right out of here or skim that part (towards the end) if you hate the idea.

The embarrassing thing is, Stiles doesn’t even remember the first time. He’d stumbled home from the bar at 2am, frustrated and horny, after spending all night flirting with a dude with a cloud of dark brown curls, only to come back from last call to find him making out with a blond beefcake while Stiles stood there like an idiot, a boilermaker balanced in each hand. Stiles had sighed, knocked back both drinks, and exited into the late November chill, fall finally come to Palo Alto.

He remembers the blurry street lights on the way back to his apartment, clipping his shoulder on the corner of a brick wall, dropping his keys when he tried to open the door, and the tap running while he kicked his shoes off in the kitchen, sending them flying across the room to land somewhere in the direction of the front door. That’s it, until he wakes up the next day miserable and bruised and very, very thirsty.

Thankfully - or not - he caught the rest on video.

Stiles rolls to reach for his phone, peeking at the screen with one bleary eye. He blinks, bewildered, and sits up a little. In the fewer than six hours he was asleep, his inbox had ballooned from 341 unread messages to 772. He opens the mail app, and there it is, the first of many:

**[YourCam] NEW COMMENT ON “Horny colege student rubs one outt”**

Stiles just stares for a minute. Then he opens the email, and clicks on the link.

++

It’s his room in the video, bedsheets rumpled, bathed in the light pouring in from the too-bright street lights right outside his window and the warm glow of the lamp on his bedside table. The way the camera’s angled, you can’t see the mess on the floor: the pile of papers threatening to avalanche from his desk at any moment, or the overflowing laundry basket that’s starting to get a bit rank. There’s nothing but pale bedsheets and the warm light, bracketed by bookshelves and the stack of novels on his nightstand.

Stiles steps into the frame and climbs onto the bed on his knees. He’s not wearing much -- a loose pair of gray cotton gym shorts hangs low on his hips. He can already see his dick through the thin fabric, half-hard -- he takes a minute to admire the surprisingly solid low-light video quality on his camera -- as he settles in the shot, next to a bottle of lube tossed onto the covers.

He breathes a sigh of relief. Even at an amateur porn level of drunk, he’d at least had the sense to keep his face out of frame. On the screen, he’s nothing but broad shoulders and long, muscled limbs, a spatter of freckles on his shoulders and torso, dark hair on his chest and lower, leading down to his waistband. His forearms flex as he runs a hand up and down his body, dips down to palm his dick. The Stiles onscreen sucks in a loud breath, cupping himself through his shorts.

Stiles holds his breath and turns up the volume on his headphones to hear the rustle of his sheets on the recording as he shifts his weight to get more comfortable, toying with the elastic of his shorts. Onscreen, one hand dips beneath the waistband to grip his dick, and he lets out a low, breathy moan.

He’s suddenly aware of two things: that he’s hard in his pajamas -- not the same shorts from last night; he has no idea where those are -- and that this video is shockingly, brilliantly hot.

Stiles watches himself ease the shorts over his hips, slowly, teasingly, stopping halfway and pulling back, teasing himself as much as he’s teasing the camera. When his dick finally springs free, it’s flushed bright red even in the low light, and so hard it bounces against his hip.

Stiles has never really seen himself from this angle before. He’s jerked it in front of the mirror before, once or twice, but it didn’t look like this: obscene, intimate, and so fucking hot he can’t think straight. In the video, he spits into his cupped palm and starts stroking himself, running his fingers over the head, arching his back, and he looks so fucking good.

The whole thing is ten minutes long, and Stiles can’t look away for a second as he brings himself so, so close to coming and eases off, over and over. His body arches on the bed, casting new shadows as he writhes against his sheets, moaning and gasping, muttering _fuck, fuck, god damn_ under his breath. Even in the low light, the camera picks up the bright pink flush that spreads all the way down to his chest.

He finally finishes loud and long, muscles twitching, panting and groaning, dick jerking in his hand as he comes all over his neck and chest. He slows his strokes and starts to shake as he catches his breath, fingers and thighs trembling, and gently strokes his dick as it starts to go soft. Finally, he gets up, leans forward to shut off the camera, and just like that, the video’s done.

“Fuck,” Stiles says, and reaches for a tissue.

++

It takes him a while to work up the nerve to do it again. He spends a month thinking about it -- about the way he must have felt that night, lonely and frustrated, clean and groomed and so ready for it, deciding that if no one wanted to fuck him, he’d do it himself. It’s not the first time he’s jacked off after a night out; it happens more often than not.

But recording himself, and posting it… To be honest, he’d thought about it before, but only idly, the way he imagines every college student casually entertains the idea of sex work when there’s nothing left in the pantry but peanut butter and the ends of a loaf of bread, and three more days until they cut paychecks at the bookstore.

He has to admit: it was hot. He’d thought so, watching it and jerking himself the morning after, and the several times he’s watched it since then. So had literally tens of thousands of people who watched the video in the intervening four weeks. He has hundreds of comment notifications and likes and followers that agree.

And now he has a virtual tip jar.

So that Friday after class, he heads straight home instead of settling into the library. The afternoon light pours through the windows as he undresses and picks out a pale blue pair of boxers to slip on over his hips. He sets up the camera, makes sure the light is good and his head’s well clear of the shot.

Once that’s done, he fixes the sheets, fixes his hair. He grabs the lube, shoves a clean washcloth under his pillow, considers a shirt, decides against it, and brushes his teeth.

After that, there’s nothing left to do but start recording.

“Okay, Stilinski,” he says. “Lights, camera, action.”

++

After the second (“Coed dorm room jerkoff”) and third videos (“Jerking off, moaning, edging, and a huge load”), he gets less nervous and starts learning.

Stiles was lucky that the first video came out as well as it did -- as it turns out, lighting is trickier than he thought, and keeping his face out of frame is difficult when he gets turned on and distracted and desperate to come. Rustling sheets and the wet sound of his hand gliding over his dick are good, but too-loud creaking bed springs and the neighbor’s dog barking outside are not. He figures out how to set up his room and record so every breath and moan is captured on the final cut, so he can be as quiet or as loud as he wants. It’s kind of nice, to let go like that, knowing someone will hear him and get turned on.

Even better, he has ideas now. It’s not like he wasn’t already well aboard the exploratory self-love train, but now he has new impetus for and renewed interest in creatively getting himself off. He already knows what he likes; now he has the time -- and the means -- to experiment with what he’s been interested in but never tried, see what his body can do, to take everything a step further. It helps, too, that it turns out what people like about watching him is how responsive and vocal he is, how much it seems like he’s actually enjoying himself.

Some days, Stiles wonders if anyone he knows will find one of his videos. The internet’s a wide and lonesome place, but his videos are popping up on the first page of search results, landing on the featured section of the website. His face isn’t ever in the frame but someone could recognize his voice, or the pattern of moles on his skin. He’s been injured and shirtless in front of the entire pack too many times to count, but he’s pretty sure they weren’t paying too much attention to his body.

It wouldn’t be the worst thing if someone did find the videos, as long as it wasn’t his dad. That’s one of the reasons he’s doing this -- he likes the thought of people watching him get off, likes that it probably works them up enough that they get off, too. He’s kind of into the idea, and the nice thing about the videos is that it’s from a distance, feels safer, and anybody who doesn’t like it could just click out of the window or hit the back button any time. It would be okay, he thinks, if someone he knew watched the video, liked it, got a little turned on, as long as they were okay with it, too. It’s not that big a deal. If someone from the pack was one of his viewers -- and he thinks about who it could be, maybe Erica, or Danny, or -- it would be okay. Maybe kind of hot, even.

And if the thought slips into his mind the next time he’s recording, grinding down against the three fingers he’s shoved inside him and back up into his fist, if he thinks about Derek watching him and getting hard, unbuttoning his fly, slipping a hand in his boxers and letting his head fall back, if he comes earlier than he’d meant to, arching off the bed and shooting all over his fist on a long, loud moan, well.

++

“S’fine,” Stiles grins, lopsided, tipsy. “Next round’s on me.”

He’s back home early for spring break, his Wednesday afternoon and Thursday morning classes mercifully cancelled. After he got the email from his department, he threw his clothes in a duffle bag and hopped in the Jeep, speeding across the bridge, getting caught in traffic in Davis. He made it just in time to get dinner with his dad before the night shift, and then to swing by and pick Scott up at Deaton’s at closing.

“Dude,” Scott says, when the beers show up to the table and Stiles leaves the waitress a fat tip. He adds a few drops of aconite solution from the vial in his pocket and stirs. “It’s okay. I know you’re still working at the bookstore and rent here is insane. You don’t have to keep treating me.”

“I’m fine,” Stiles insists, and drops the shot into his pint glass. It only spills a little. “It’s cool. We’re cool. I kind of… found a side gig.”

“What? A side gig? I know you can’t drive for Uber in the Jeep.”

Stiles shakes his head. “It’s not Uber. It’s something else.”

He tries to keep his tone neutral, even, totally chill, but he can tell it doesn’t work from the way Scott’s eyebrows shoot up. And shit, way to go Stiles, getting too drunk to tell a good lie.

“Whoa. What is it? Are you like… a phone sex operator or something?” Scott laughs.

“Or something,” Stiles mumbles, and drinks. The bar looks like a weird amber fishbowl through the bottom of his glass.

Scott’s eyes go wide. “You’re not, like. You know. In trouble, or something, are you? Because if you are, you know, you can tell me.” Scott rests his hand over Stiles’s on the table. “I’m here for you, buddy. I’ve got your back.”

“Jesus, no,” Stiles yanks his hand out from under Scott’s. “Oh my god. It’s not… Look, you know how sometimes people make videos of themselves… you know, for money? It’s that. I make videos of myself and I get money from ads and from people who like the videos.”

“Wait, so you’re a porn star?” Scott gapes at him.

“Not exactly,” Stiles says, finishing his beer and signalling for another. “But kind of. More like somewhere between that and… camgirl. Camboy, I guess. A solo artist, if you will.”

“You’re serious.” 

“As a heart attack, Scotty.”

“Huh,” Scott looks contemplative. “And the money’s pretty good?”

“The best. Plus, you know. Do what you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life.” Stiles gives him a shit-eating grin.

“Nice, bro. So,” Scott looks around, huddles closer at their tiny table. “Do people message you? And ask for… you know, like. Weird stuff?”

“Like you would not believe, man,” Stiles laughs. “Like you would not believe.”

++

He’s miserably hungover the next morning, but once again eternally grateful that of all possible best bros in the world, his is Scott McCall. They had stayed at the bar until last call, catching up and telling stories, Scott asking question after question about his cam business, devolving into sharing stories about Stiles’s most recent ill-fated hookup and Scott’s very fresh breakup with his very short-term girlfriend.

Stiles eats lunch with his dad, runs a few errands on his way back to the house. He answers comments on his videos, which involves liberal use of the winking face emoji, and plays Fortnite until it’s time to head over to Scott’s for pack movie and pizza Friday. 

He lets himself in to Scott and Isaac’s apartment. Everyone’s piled on couches in the living room, with the exception of Isaac and Allison, who are rummaging around for drinks and dishes in this kitchen, and Derek, who’s picking up the pizza.

“Stiles,” Erica says, raising her beer in greeting. “Good to finally see you _in person_.”

“Erica,” Stiles nods. “Always a pleasure.”

“You would know,” she says, a sly grin spreading across her lips.

“Hmmm?” He has a sinking feeling he knows exactly where this conversation is going, but maybe if he feigns ignorance he can make his escape to the kitchen and Erica will just -- let it go. Maybe. There’s a chance, at least.

“You know, I’ve always wondered if your hips could move like that off the dance floor. I wasn’t disappointed. Good hustle, Batman.” Erica looks up at him through her eyelashes, and Stiles knows for certain he’s busted. It was only a matter of time; trust Erica to find his one tiny channel in the vast ocean of porn the internet has to offer.

“Wait, are you talking about his porn channel?” Scott says, appearing at Stiles’s elbow, red cup clutched in his hand. “Is she talking about your porn channel?”

Allison leans out of the kitchen doorway. “Are we talking about Stiles’s porn channel?” 

“I told you that in confidence,” Stiles hisses through his teeth at Scott, glancing at Boyd.

“It’s fine, Boyd and Isaac already know.” Erica reassures Scott. “I showed them as soon as I found it. Well, almost as soon as I found it.”

“I really wish you hadn’t,” Isaac shouts.

“Yeah. Thanks for that,” Boyd says. “No offense, Stilinski. You’re not my type.”

“Oh my god. Does everyone know?”

“Not everyone,” Lydia says in that sing-song, know-it-all voice that he hates, just as Derek pushes through the front door, six gigantic pizza boxes balanced on an arm.

“Does everyone know what?” He looks around at all of them on his way to set the boxes on the dining room table. Stiles tries not to stare at the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders or his stupid stubbled jaw.

“About Stiles’s porn channel,” Isaac shouts helpfully from the kitchen.

“Oh.” Derek pauses, blinking, expressionless. “Stiles’s porn channel. I… I’m going to go help Isaac and Allison—“

“Thank you, Isaac. Really, thank you,” Stiles shouts over his shoulder. “And, yes, everyone. I have found a creative way to supplement my microscopic bookstore paycheck, and have fun doing it.”

“With your dick,” Erica adds, smiling with all her teeth.

“No, it’s-- I’m not-- Okay! Okay, fine, yes. With my dick,” Stiles says. “Happily. Proudly. Lucratively. If you’re good at something, never do it for free.” There’s a loud crashing noise from the kitchen, as if every baking sheet Scott and Isaac own has fallen to the ground.

“I’m tired of talking about Stilinski’s dick,” Boyd sighs, standing. “Let’s eat.”

“Are there olives? I want olives,” Allison declares, emerging from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel.

“Sorry, dude,” Scott says, as the others flock to the dining table in a cacophony of clanking plates and cutlery. “I thought you were already talking about it.”

“It’s all good, Scotty,” Stiles claps a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll just add this to the list of things we never, ever tell my dad.”

++

The email shows up in Derek’s inbox an hour after he gets home, twenty minutes after he’d given in and sat down in front of the computer only to realize he had no idea where to start looking.

It’s from Erica, who has never stayed out of his private life and clearly isn’t about to start now, and it’s nothing but a link, signed _XO_.

Derek deletes the email.

He’s going to forget this ever happened, that he heard anything at all. Stiles had seemed embarrassed, but not ashamed, or guilty. He’d blushed at the pack’s gentle ribbing -- Derek’s grateful that, for once, they didn’t take it too far -- and ran his hands down his face, grinned. 

He goes to do dishes, waters the plants, takes out the trash, washes his hands. It’s not a surprise to him that people are interested in what Stiles does. Derek’s seen Stiles’s mouth. He’s seen the way his cheeks flush after a run through the woods, the way his heart pounds and he catches his breath. He has some idea of why Stiles might be so popular, enough to have a couple fans, make a little money.

Derek checks his phone. Erica’s sent him a text: _Check ur email ;)_

He sighs. She’s not going to leave him alone about this, so he might as well look, get it over with. Better to get it out of his system. He can handle it, the same way he can handle everything about Stiles that makes him want.

Decided, he settles on the couch with his headphones and clicks the link.

The video loads right away, and he barely has time to note the title - _Quick afternoon fantasy jerkoff between classes ;)_ \- before it starts, and there’s -- there’s Stiles, stark naked on the screen of Derek’s laptop, in the middle of Derek’s living room, with his hand on his own dick.

Derek’s startled by how incredibly easy it is for him to recognize Stiles, even though his mouth is barely in the frame, even though he’s cut off at mid-thigh. The moles on chest are familiar, the line of his jaw unmistakable, and his hands -- his hands.

It’s obvious that he’d been touching himself well before the camera was rolling. His dick is shiny and wet and painfully red. He’s stroking with the tips of his fingers, barely gripping, swiping his thumb over the head. The video captures every sound -- Stiles’s skin against the sheets as he shifts, spreading his legs, the wet sound of his slicked-up dick in his hand, a low murmuring exhale just before he starts -- jesus, just before he starts talking.

“Feels so good. Just like that babe, just like -- ah,” Stiles moans quietly, and his voice is low, barely above a whisper, but so close, like he’s murmuring into Derek’s ear. He pants as he works himself over, fucking up into his fist, reaching down to tug on his balls. Derek’s transfixed by the desperate thrust of Stiles’s hips, his forearms, the barest glimpse of his pink, gasping mouth.

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, d--”

Stiles comes, thighs twitching, dick jerking, nutting all over the dark thatch of hair on his stomach and the moles on his chest. He’s catching his breath, legs still shivering, when he starts laughing, breathless and joyful on every exhale. Derek realizes he’s been holding his breath; he has no idea for how long. Stiles pushes himself up on a satisfied sigh, and the camera cuts off.

Derek sits there for a long moment, dazed, frozen, more turned on than he can remember being in his entire adult life.

“Fuck,” Derek says, and reaches for his fly.

++

Stiles comes over like he usually does, borrowing books and hanging around, asking questions about pack history and lore, trying to figure out whether his downstairs neighbor back in Palo Alto is a striga or just a nocturnal weirdo.

“Or both,” Stiles suggests, cocking his head to the side. Derek follows the line of his neck to where it disappears beneath that stupid red hoodie. “Supernatural or nocturnal weirdo: not mutually exclusive, obviously. Case in point.”

He raises his eyebrows and waits a beat. Derek realizes he's supposed to react.

“Shut up,” he says, and rolls his eyes. Stiles picks up a pen and starts playing with it, tapping against his lower lip, rolling it between his fingers. Derek thinks he might die.

“Clever. Great comeback, Hale,” Stiles sighs, turning back to his book. Derek shakes his head and tries to concentrate on -- whatever it is he’s doing. Before Stiles showed up, he’d been looking through contractors’ bids for demolishing the old house. Now, he’s mostly shuffling papers and trying not to think about the other night.

After, he’d scrolled through the rest of the videos: Stiles rubbing himself through black lace panties; Stiles with legs spread, fucking himself with a bright red dildo; Stiles, teasing himself, arching, coming untouched.

It doesn’t make Derek feel weird at all.

He can’t keep it out of his head, though. Derek’s had years of practice ignoring it, brushing the thought aside. Sex is just sex, he knows, until you’re talking about someone who’s only sixteen - still a kid, really - or later, a packmate, or someone you depend on to keep you alive. Then, it’s something more complicated. Derek’s had a lot of complicated in his life. This is nothing new, and not worth getting worked up over.

But there’s something about having had a glimpse of what it might be like: to have Stiles spread out beneath him, breathing in his ear, begging him for more. What his face might look like, all the things he wants to do to Stiles's body to make him sound just like he does in the videos, to make him shake and come undone, and this time with Derek there to catch him, hold him, gentle him through it.

Derek can only imagine what he tastes like or, god, how he would smell, skin hot and flushed as he got all worked up, hair damp with sweat, rubbing his own come into his chest, or both of their—

“Hey,” Stiles says. He’s got an arm slung across the back of the couch, and Derek’s struck by how broad his shoulders are, by the curve of his forearm where he’s pushed up the sleeves of his sweater. “You okay? You seem kind of… off, lately.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, clearing his throat, looking down at the papers, looking away. He shakes his head. “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, turning back to his books.

++

It’s not fine. Derek doesn’t know how to talk to Stiles anymore, how to look at him. Every time he tries, he ends up thinking about him in Derek’s bed, heels slipping against the sheets as he tries to arch into Derek’s hands, come smeared across his chest, his belly. Derek ends up not talking to or looking at Stiles much at all.

In the midst of desperately trying to avoid making Stiles uncomfortable with his obvious, pathetic attention, trying to keep any of his pack from catching on to the fact that he’s half hard in his pants over Stiles, he can tell Stiles is starting to notice something’s off. Derek knows he’s handling it badly; his abrupt exits and diminished conversational ability have gone unnoticed by exactly no one. Stiles looks confused and a little angry, watching Derek from across the room, like he’s an impossible riddle Stiles is determined to solve.

And the real problem is, Derek’s spent so long letting the distance grow between them, trying to protect Stiles, keep him safe from the curse of Derek’s devotion. The problem is, with time, all the reasons he’d kept himself away -- youth, inexperience, danger -- have fallen away. The problem is, without them, all he’s left with is the possibility, and the wanting. He’d spent so long ignoring it, working to build a friendship and an easy affection in its place. He’d forgotten how badly he wants and now all that is out the window -- he can’t keep still, can’t keep his shit together in the least.

It would be slightly less devastating if he didn’t know about all the rest: Stiles’s loyalty, the way he can tease the signal out of a riot of noise, his cleverness, the unflinching set of his jaw as he swings a baseball bat into the skull of a rogue omega inches from clawing through Isaac’s throat. It would be fine, if he wasn’t so damn smart and smart-mouthed and far too close for Derek to ignore.

What he wants to know most of all is if Stiles always laughs like that after: loud and relaxed, shaking his whole body with something so joyful and sweet. Derek’s never had sex that makes him happy, before. He wants to, with Stiles.

++

It finally comes to a head on Friday morning. After pack breakfast at Derek’s, everyone quickly dispersed to work and classes, leaving Derek to run the dishwasher and pretend to work while Stiles flips through crumbling old herbariums on the couch, looking for whatever it is that’s sprouted up at the base of the Nemeton.

“Do you think it could be a magical variant of a weed? I checked it out on my run the other day and it almost looked like the other plants, just… different.”

“Not sure,” Derek grunts. Stiles is on his back, book propped up on his chest, the hem of his shirt rucked up on the cushions. If Derek were looking, he would see the band of his boxers, a narrow strip of bare skin, the dark line of hair disappearing into his jeans. Derek isn’t looking.

“Okay. What about fairy tansy?” He stretches and shoves his shirt up higher to scratch his belly, and Derek forgets to answer. The moment lasts long enough for Stiles to notice and push himself up on an elbow.

“Derek.” There’s a hard edge to Stiles’s voice that makes him look up, meet his gaze. “You’ve been a little weird lately. Did I do something to piss you off?”

“No,” Derek says shortly, and turns back to the stack of permits in front of him. “You didn’t do anything. We’re fine.”

Stiles pushes a hand through his hair and sighs. He taps a pencil on the corner of his book and Derek waits in gut-churning, fearful anticipation. He can tell Stiles is thinking, working himself up to a confrontation and Derek wants nothing more than for him to drop it, to forget this ever happened. No such luck -- after a moment, Stiles clears his throat and puts his book down, standing.

“So, hey,” Stiles says. He’s calm but there’s something tense in his posture, anticipatory. “I’m trying to be sensitive to the fact that not everyone feels comfortable with this kind of thing. I know it might feel complicated for you, or you might have different views, or whatever. But what I’m doing… it’s my body, and I get to choose what I do with it. And my friends need to respect that even if they disagree with it.” Stiles finally looks up at him, tense and frustrated. “And don’t say we’re not friends, because we absolutely are, Derek, for fuck’s sake.”

There’s a long pause, and Derek tries. He tries to put his thoughts in order, to figure out what to say, how to explain, but he’s stuck, he can’t --

“I don’t think I can be friends with you,” is what he says instead, and Stiles steps back like he’s been slapped, paling.

“Wow, okay.” Stiles blinks. “Okay. Fuck you, too.”

“No, wait, Stiles--” Derek steps toward him and reaches out to touch him.

“Nope. I’m out of here.” Stiles spins away, stone-faced and flushed with anger now, grabbing his keys and wallet from the coffee table, digging for his phone in the cushions.

“Stiles, just let me explain--”

“What the actual fuck, Derek?” Stiles explodes, snatching up his backpack, shoving his feet into his shoes. They’re still tied, and his heels are hanging out the back. “What is there to explain? You don’t want to be my friend? Okay then, you’re not.”

“I saw them,” Derek says, and he tries to say more, he really does, but the words get caught, trapped behind his teeth

“No,” Stiles says, shaking his head as he heads toward the door. “No, nope. Fuck you. If that’s all it takes… I won’t let you make me feel ashamed for this.”

"No, listen, Stiles -- I saw them. Your videos. I… I watched them." Something about the way he says it, the way he looks at Stiles, terrified and helpless, must let Stiles know exactly what he means, because he stops in the entryway.

"Okay," Stiles says slowly, swallowing. He’s still clutching his backpack, still next to the door, shoulders tense, but at least now he’s facing Derek, not trying to leave. "You watched them. So. What did you think?"

Derek knows an olive branch when he sees one, and he wants to be anything other than honest, but he can’t. "I want to make you feel that good."

Stiles’s jaw drops, and there’s a part of Derek that wants to laugh at the absurdity of it, at himself, at this entire dumbass situation, but he couldn’t possibly. The moment’s too fragile; there’s far too much at stake.

Stiles finally manages to speak, surprisingly low and quiet. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I want to -- I’m sorry,” Derek says, voice rough, tense. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to look. I tried not to think about it, but I can’t, I want--”

“Oh my god, Derek, you _asshole_ ,” and Derek is so fucking confused, because Stiles is tossing his backpack aside, stepping out of his shoes, and striding across the room, slipping an arm over Derek’s shoulder, grasping the back of his neck. “Don’t be fucking sorry,” he says, and drags Derek’s lips down to meet his.

Stiles kisses him sweet and insistent, a slow slide of lips that Derek can feel down to his toes, that sends a shiver down his back when Stiles sinks his teeth into Derek’s bottom lip. Derek grabs Stiles’s hips, hauling him closer in retaliation, and slips a thigh between his legs. His body feels so good pressed up against Derek’s. He runs his hands up Stiles’s back to touch his shoulders, back down to grab at his ass. Stiles groans and bucks his hips into Derek’s.

“Fuck,” he breathes, breaking away from the kiss. “Can I--”

“Yes,” Derek says, “please,” and Stiles’s adamant hands are tugging Derek’s shirt over his head, unbuckling his belt, shoving his pants down to pool at his feet. Stiles is naked just as quickly, stripped down to red briefs.

“Shit,” he says, running his hands down Derek’s chest. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to--”

“Come here,” Derek says, wrapping his fingers around Stiles’s wrist and tugging him toward the bedroom. There’s nothing that he wants more than Stiles in his bed, naked, wanting, _his_.

Stiles goes when Derek pushes him down on the bed, looks up at him with bright eyes and parted lips as he settles over him, knees between Stiles’s thighs. Derek sits back on his heels -- fuck, Stiles looks good like this -- and runs his fingers along the waistband of Stiles’s briefs, listening for the hitch in his breath. He hooks two fingers in the elastic, pulls back and lets it snap against Stiles’s skin.

“Oh my god,” Stiles rolls his eyes, hooking an arm around Derek’s neck, and Derek lets it pull him off-balance, falling forward into an insistent, promising kiss. He relaxes into it, and can feel Stiles’s grin against his lips. Derek kisses him harder, until he’s breathless and whining, until the grin is gone.

The sounds Stiles makes now are just for him -- it’s Derek’s name he’s moaning as Derek strips his underwear, strokes his thumbs over the crests of Stiles’s hip bones. His breath hitches as Derek bites at the insides of his thighs, until he squirms and begs for more. He smells as amazing as Derek imagined he would, only better, because now he smells like both of them, tastes like both of them.

“Fuck, Derek, come on--” Stiles breathes. Derek doesn’t make him wait, sucks a sloppy kiss on the underside of his cock and takes Stiles in his mouth. Stiles’s gasp edges into a low moan as Derek eases into a rhythm, taking Stiles deeper and working him with his hand. Stiles rests his hands on Derek’s head, and he hums in appreciation, loves the way Stiles’s fingers tense and tangle in his hair.

He loses himself for a while, in the soft sounds of his mouth on Stiles, in the taste and weight of him on his tongue, giving into something he’s wanted for longer than he’s ready to admit. There’s nothing in his head but the way Stiles moves under him, the way he begs as Derek eases his fingers inside and fucks him steady and sure.

“Derek, please,” Stiles gasps, cupping Derek’s face, guiding him back up his body.

“How do you want--” Derek asks, slicking himself up, looking at Stiles’s flushed cheeks and heaving chest. He’s got one hand curled around his dick, flushed and hard between spread legs, still wet from Derek’s mouth. Derek doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anything more in his life.

“You know,” Stiles says, “Derek, you know what I want,” and Derek does. He pushes into Stiles and fucks him long and just a little too slow, teasing, until he’s meeting Derek with every thrust, panting for more. Derek presses his forehead against Stiles’s shoulder, so close and overwhelmed by the sound of him, by the way Stiles feels around him and against him. By how much he wanted exactly this: their bodies moving together, the low creak of the bedframe and the rustling sheets, the hitches in Stiles’s breath and heartbeat, faster and louder as Derek speeds up, fucks into him in earnest.

“I want you to come for me,” Stiles says, low and insistent, coaxing, his breath against Derek’s ear, against his neck, and that’s all it takes. Derek comes, moaning, thrusting deeper into Stiles, as close as he can get, rhythm faltering as Stiles gasps beneath him. Barely recovered, he leans back and wraps his hand around Stiles, keeps fucking him until he’s moaning with every stroke.

“Come on, come on,” Derek pants. “I want to see you shake, baby, Stiles, come on, I want to make you feel so good.”

“Oh, fuck, Derek,” Stiles says, and he breaks apart under Derek’s hands, eyes half-closed, cheeks flushed, mouth open and trembling, legs quaking. He groans, come spilling down Derek’s knuckles to pool on Stiles’s belly, and Derek fucks him through it, slowing, until they’re both satisfied and he’s just shy of too sensitive to keep going.

And Stiles -- he’s laughing, low and quiet, in between breaths, and Derek can’t help bend down to kiss him. Stiles flings his arms over Derek’s shoulders and kisses back, still laughing against Derek’s lips.

Later, cleaned up and sprawled next to each other on the crumpled bedsheets, Stiles’s fingers absently stroking through Derek’s hair, Stiles pushes up a little to look him in the eye.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long, long time,” Stiles says, soft, serious. His face is so close, Derek could count his eyelashes, if he wanted, and he thinks maybe he does want. “And now that I have, I kind of don’t think I want to stop.”

“Me, too.” Derek says, and kisses him again.

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by Number One Fan by MUNA.
> 
> There are so many directions this didn't go: Derek using a pseudonym to comment on Stiles's videos and striking up an internet relationship, a much longer, attenuated period of miscommunication and pining, a very wonderful post-coital conversation in which Stiles asks Derek if he's going to be weird about the videos and Derek tells him no, it's his body and of course he can do what he wants with it, but if they're going to be together -- no one else gets to touch Stiles like this but him. And then Derek demonstrates exactly what "like this" is. So, you know, if you prefer any of these roads not taken, use your imagination.
> 
> Thanks for reading! You can also find me on [tumblr](https://whateverrrrwhatever.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/whateverrrrisay).


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